Marmion

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQAshestiel, Ettrick ForestAn ancient Minstrel sagely said,‘Where is the life which late we led?’That motley clown in Arden wood,Whom humorous Jacques with envy view’d,Not even that clown could amplify,                          5On this trite text, so long as I.Eleven years we now may tell,Since we have known each other well;Since, riding side by side, our handFirst drew the voluntary brand;                            10And sure, through many a varied scene,,Unkindness never came between.Away these winged years have flown,To join the mass of ages gone;And though deep mark’d, like all below,                    15With chequer’d shades of joy and woe;Though thou o’er realms and seas hast ranged,Mark’d cities lost, and empires changed,While here, at home, my narrower kenSomewhat of manners saw, and men;                          20Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,Fever’d the progress of these years,Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seemThe recollection of a dream,So still we glide down to the sea                          25Of fathomless eternity.  Even now it scarcely seems a day,Since first I tuned this idle lay;A task so often’ thrown aside,When leisure graver cares denied,                          30That now, November’s dreary gale,Whose voice inspired my opening tale,That same November gale once moreWhirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.Their vex’d boughs streaming to the sky,                    35Once more our naked birches sigh,And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen,Have donn’d their wintry shrouds again:And mountain dark, and flooded mead,Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.                          40Earlier than wont along the sky,Mix’d with the rack, the snow mists fly;The shepherd who, in summer sun,Had something of our envy won,As thou with pencil, I with pen,                            45The features traced of hill and glen; -He who, outstretch’d the livelong day,At ease among the heath-flowers lay,View’d the light clouds with vacant look,Or slumber’d o’er his tatter’d book,                        50Or idly busied him to guideHis angle o’er the lessen’d tide; -At midnight now, the snowy plainFinds sterner labour for the swain.  When red hath set the beamless sun,                      55Through heavy vapours dark and dun;When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,Hears, half asleep, the rising stormHurling the hail, and sleeted rain,Against the casement’s tinkling pane;                      60The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,To shelter in the brake and rocks,Are warnings which the shepherd askTo dismal and to dangerous task.Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,                    65The blast may sink in mellowing rain;Till, dark above, and white below,Decided drives the flaky snow,And forth the hardy swain must go.Long, with dejected look and whine,                        70To leave the hearth his dogs repine;Whistling and cheering them to aid,Around his back he wreathes the plaid:His flock he gathers, and he guides,To open downs, and mountain-sides,                          75Where fiercest though the tempest blow,Least deeply lies the drift below.The blast, that whistles o’er the fells,Stiffens his locks to icicles;Oft he looks back, while streaming far,                    80His cottage window seems a star, -Loses its feeble gleam, – and thenTurns patient to the blast again,And, facing to the tempest’s sweep,Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.                85If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,Benumbing death is in the gale;His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,Close to the hut, no more his own,Close to the aid he sought in vain,                        90The morn may find the stiffen’d swain:The widow sees, at dawning pale,His orphans raise their feeble wail;And, close beside him, in the snow,Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,                          95Couches upon his master’s breast,And licks his cheek to break his rest.  Who envies now the shepherd’s lot,His healthy fare, his rural cot,His summer couch by greenwood tree,                        100His rustic kirn’s loud revelry,His native hill-notes, tuned on high,To Marion of the blithesome eye;His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,And all Arcadia’s golden creed?                            105  Changes not so with us, my Skene,Of human life the varying scene?Our youthful summer oft we seeDance by on wings of game and glee,While the dark storm reserves its rage,                    110Against the winter of our age:As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,His manhood spent in peace and joy;But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,Call’d ancient Priam forth to arms.                        115Then happy those, since each must drainHis share of pleasure, share of pain, -Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,To whom the mingled cup is given;Whose lenient sorrows find relief,                        120Whose joys are chasten’d by their grief.And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,When thou, of late, wert doom’d to twine, -Just when thy bridal hour was by, -The cypress with the myrtle tie.                          125Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled,And bless’d the union of his child,When love must change its joyous cheer,And wipe affection’s filial tear.Nor did the actions next his end,                          130Speak more the father than the friend:Scarce had lamented Forbes paidThe tribute to his Minstrel’s shade;The tale of friendship scarce was told,Ere the narrator’s heart was cold-                        135Far may we search before we findA heart so manly and so kind!But not around his honour’d urn,Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;The thousand eyes his care had dried,                      140Pour at his name a bitter tide;And frequent falls the grateful dew,For benefits the world ne’er knew.If mortal charity dare claimThe Almighty’s attributed name,                            145Inscribe above his mouldering clay,‘The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.’Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deemMy verse intrudes on this sad theme;for sacred was the pen that wrote,                        150‘Thy father’s friend forget thou not:’And grateful title may I plead,For many a kindly word and deed,To bring my tribute to his grave: -‘Tis little-but ‘tis all I have.                          155  To thee, perchance, this rambling strainRecalls our summer walks again;When, doing nought, – and, to speak true,Not anxious to find aught to do, -The wild unbounded hills we ranged,                        160While oft our talk its topic changed,And, desultory as our way,Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,No effort made to break its trance,                        165We could right pleasantly pursueOur sports in social silence too;Thou gravely labouring to pourtrayThe blighted oak’s fantastic spray;I spelling o’er, with much delight,                        170The legend of that antique knight,Tirante by name, yclep’d the White.At either’s feet a trusty squire,Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,Jealous, each other’s motions view’d,                      175And scarce suppress’d their ancient feud.The laverock whistled from the cloud;The stream was lively, but not loud;From the white thorn the May-flower shedIts dewy fragrance round our head:                        180Not Ariel lived more merrilyUnder the blossom’d bough, than we.  And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,When Winter stript the summer’s bowers.Careless we heard, what now I hear,                        185The wild blast sighing deep and drear,When fires were bright, and lamps beam’d gay,And ladies tuned the lovely lay;And he was held a laggard soul,Who shunn’d to quaff the sparkling bowl.                  190Then he, whose absence we deplore,Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,The longer miss’d, bewail’d the more;And thou, and I, and dear-loved R-,And one whose name I may not say, –                         195For not Mimosa’s tender treeShrinks sooner from the touch than he, -In merry chorus well combined,With laughter drown’d the whistling wind.Mirth was within; and care without                        200Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.Not but amid the buxom sceneSome grave discourse might intervene-Of the good horse that bore him best,His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:                    205For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.Such nights we’ve had; and, though the gameOf manhood be more sober tame,And though the field-day, or the drill,                    210Seem less important now-yet stillSuch may we hope to share again.The sprightly thought inspires my strain!And mark, how, like a horseman true,Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew.                        215

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP

IEustace, I said, did blithely markThe first notes of the merry lark.The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,And with their light and lively call,                        5Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.  Whistling they came, and free of heart,    But soon their mood was changed;  Complaint was heard on every part,    Of something disarranged.                              10Some clamour’d loud for armour lost;Some brawl’d and wrangled with the host;‘By Becket’s bones,’ cried one, ‘I fear,That some false Scot has stolen my spear!’-Young Blount, Lord Marmion’s second squire,                15Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;Although the rated horse-boy sware,Last night he dress’d him sleek and fair.While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder, –                     20‘Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!Bevis lies dying in his stall:To Marmion who the plight dare tell,Of the good steed he loves so well?’-Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw                          25The charger panting on his straw;Till one, who would seem wisest, cried, -‘What else but evil could betide,With that cursed Palmer for our guide?Better we had through mire and bush                        30Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.’II  Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess’d,    Nor wholly understood,  His comrades’ clamorous plaints suppress’d;    He knew Lord Marmion’s mood.                            35  Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,  And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,    And did his tale display  Simply, as if he knew of nought    To cause such disarray.                                40Lord Marmion gave attention cold,Nor marvell’d at the wonders told, -Pass’d them as accidents of course,And bade his clarions sound to horse.IIIYoung Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost                    45Had reckon’d with their Scottish host;And, as the charge he cast and paid,‘Ill thou deservest thy hire,’ he said;‘Dost see, thou knave, my horse’s plight?Fairies have ridden him all the night,                      50  And left him in a foam!I trust, that soon a conjuring band,With English cross, and blazing brand,Shall drive the devils from this land,  To their infernal home:                                  55For in this haunted den, I trow,All night they trampled to and fro.’-The laughing host look’d on the hire, -‘Gramercy, gentle southern squire,And if thou comest among the rest,                          60With Scottish broadsword to be blest,Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,And short the pang to undergo.’Here stay’d their talk, – for MarmionGave now the signal to set on.                              65The Palmer showing forth the way,They journey’d all the morning day.IVThe green-sward way was smooth and good,Through Humbie’s and through Saltoun’s wood;A forest-glade, which, varying still,                      70Here gave a view of dale and hill,There narrower closed, till over headA vaulted screen the branches made.‘A pleasant path,’ Fitz-Eustace said;‘Such as where errant-knights might see                    75Adventures of high chivalry;Might meet some damsel flying fast,With hair unbound, and looks aghast;And smooth and level course were here,In her defence to break a spear.                            80Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;And oft, in such, the story tells,The damsel kind, from danger freed,Did grateful pay her champion’s meed.’He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion’s mind;                      85Perchance to show his lore design’d;  For Eustace much had poredUpon a huge romantic tome,In the hall-window of his home,Imprinted at the antique dome                              90  Of Caxton, or de Worde.Therefore he spoke, – but spoke in vain,For Marmion answer’d nought again.VNow sudden, distant trumpets shrill,In notes prolong’d by wood and hill,                        95  Were heard to echo far;Each ready archer grasp’d his bow,But by the flourish soon they know,  They breathed no point of war.Yet cautious, as in foeman’s land,                        100Lord Marmion’s order speeds the band,  Some opener ground to gain;And scarce a furlong had they rode,When thinner trees, receding, show’d  A little woodland plain.                                105Just in that advantageous glade,The halting troop a line had made,As forth from the opposing shade  Issued a gallant train.VIFirst came the trumpets, at whose clang                    110So late the forest echoes rang;On prancing steeds they forward press’d,With scarlet mantle, azure vest;Each at his trump a banner wore,Which Scotland’s royal scutcheon bore:                    115Heralds and pursuivants, by nameBute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,In painted tabards, proudly showingGules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,  Attendant on a King-at-arms,                            120Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,That feudal strife had often quell’d,  When wildest its alarms.VII  He was a man of middle age;  In aspect manly, grave, and sage,                        125    As on King’s errand come;  But in the glances of his eye,  A penetrating, keen, and sly    Expression found its home;  The flash of that satiric rage,                          130  Which, bursting on the early stage,  Branded the vices of the age,    And broke the keys of Rome.  On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;  His cap of maintenance was graced                        135    With the proud heron-plume.  From his steed’s shoulder, loin, and breast,    Silk housings swept the ground,  With Scotland’s arms, device, and crest,    Embroider’d round and round.                          140  The double tressure might you see,    First by Achaius borne,  The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,    And gallant unicorn.So bright the King’s armorial coat,                        145That scarce the dazzled eye could note,In living colours, blazon’d brave,The Lion, which his title gave;A train, which well beseem’d his state,But all unarm’d, around him wait.                          150  Still is thy name in high account,    And still thy verse has charms,  Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,    Lord Lion King-at-arms!VIIIDown from his horse did Marmion spring,                    155Soon as he saw the Lion-King;For well the stately Baron knewTo him such courtesy was due,Whom Royal James himself had crown’d,And on his temples placed the round                        160  Of Scotland’s ancient diadem:And wet his brow with hallow’d wine,And on his finger given to shine  The emblematic gem.Their mutual greetings duly made,                          165The Lion thus his message said: -‘Though Scotland’s King hath deeply sworeNe’er to knit faith with Henry more,And strictly hath forbid resortFrom England to his royal court;                          170Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion’s name,And honours much his warlike fame,My liege hath deem’d it shame, and lackOf courtesy, to turn him back;And, by his order, I, your guide,                          175Must lodging fit and fair provide,Till finds King James meet time to seeThe flower of English chivalry.’IXThough inly chafed at this delay,Lord Marmion bears it as he may.                          180The Palmer, his mysterious guide,Beholding thus his place supplied,  Sought to take leave in vain:Strict was the Lion-King’s command,That none, who rode in Marmion’s band,                    185  Should sever from the train:‘England has here enow of spiesIn Lady Heron’s witching eyes;’To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,But fair pretext to Marmion made.                          190The right hand path they now decline,And trace against the stream the Tyne.XAt length up that wild dale they wind,  Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;For there the Lion’s care assign’d                        195  A lodging meet for Marmion’s rank.That Castle rises on the steep  Of the green vale of Tyne:And far beneath, where slow they creep,From pool to eddy, dark and deep,                          200Where alders moist, and willows weep,  You hear her streams repine.The towers in different ages rose;Their various architecture shows  The builders’ various hands;                            205A mighty mass, that could oppose,When deadliest hatred fired its foes,  The vengeful Douglas bands.XICrichtoun! though now thy miry court  But pens the lazy steer and sheep,                      210  Thy turrets rude, and totter’d Keep,Have been the minstrel’s loved resort.Oft have I traced, within thy fort,  Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,  Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,                      215Quarter’d in old armorial sort,  Remains of rude magnificence.Nor wholly yet had time defaced  Thy lordly gallery fair;Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,                          220Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,  Adorn thy ruin’d stair.Still rises unimpair’d below,The court-yard’s graceful portico;Above its cornice, row and row                            225  Of fair hewn facets richly show    Their pointed diamond form,  Though there but houseless cattle go,    To shield them from the storm.  And, shuddering, still may we explore,                  230    Where oft whilom were captives pent,  The darkness of thy Massy More;    Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,May trace, in undulating line,The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.                            235XIIAnother aspect Crichtoun show’d,As through its portal Marmion rode;But yet ‘twas melancholy stateReceived him at the outer gate;For none were in the Castle then,                          240But women, boys, or aged men.With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,To welcome noble Marmion, came;Her son, a stripling twelve years old,Proffer’d the Baron’s rein to hold;                        245For each man that could draw a swordHad march’d that morning with their lord,Earl Adam Hepburn, – he who diedOn Flodden, by his sovereign’s side.Long may his Lady look in vain!                            250She ne’er shall see his gallant train,Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.‘Twas a brave race, before the nameOf hated Bothwell stain’d their fame.XIIIAnd here two days did Marmion rest,                        255  With every rite that honour claims,Attended as the King’s own guest; -  Such the command of Royal James,Who marshall’d then his land’s array,Upon the Borough-moor that lay.                            260Perchance he would not foeman’s eyeUpon his gathering host should pry,Till full prepared was every bandTo march against the English land.Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay’s wit                  265Oft cheer the Baron’s moodier fit;And, in his turn, he knew to prizeLord Marmion’s powerful mind, and wise, -Train’d in the lore of Rome and Greece,And policies of war and peace.                            270XIVIt chanced, as fell the second night,  That on the battlements they walk’d,And, by the slowly fading light,  Of varying topics talk’d;And, unaware, the Herald-bard                              275Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,  In travelling so far;For that a messenger from heavenIn vain to James had counsel given  Against the English war:                                280And, closer question’d, thus he toldA tale, which chronicles of oldIn Scottish story have enroll’d:XVSir David Lindsey’s Tale.‘Of all the palaces so fair,  Built for the royal dwelling,                            285In Scotland, far beyond compare  Linlithgow is excelling;And in its park, in jovial June,How sweet the merry linnet’s tune,  How blithe the blackbird’s lay!                          290The wild buck bells from ferny brake,The coot dives merry on the lake,The saddest heart might pleasure take  To see all nature gay.But June is to our Sovereign dear                          295The heaviest month in all the year:Too well his cause of grief you know,June saw his father’s overthrow.Woe to the traitors, who could bringThe princely boy against his King!                        300Still in his conscience burns the sting.In offices as strict as Lent,King James’s June is ever spent.XVI‘When last this ruthful month was come,And in Linlithgow’s holy dome                              305  The King, as wont, was praying;While, for his royal father’s soul,The chanters sung, the bells did toll,  The Bishop mass was saying-For now the year brought round again                      310The day the luckless King was slain-In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt,With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,  And eyes with sorrow streaming;Around him in their stalls of state,                      315The Thistle’s Knight-Companions sate,  Their banners o’er them beaming.I too was there, and, sooth to tell,Bedeafen’d with the jangling knell,Was watching where the sunbeams fell,                      320  Through the stain’d casement gleaming;But, while I mark’d what next befell,  It seem’d as I were dreaming.Stepp’d from the crowd a ghostly wight,In azure gown, with cincture white;                        325His forehead bald, his head was bare,Down hung at length his yellow hair. -Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,I pledge to you my knightly word,That, when I saw his placid grace,                        330His simple majesty of face,His solemn bearing, and his pace  So stately gliding on, -Seem’d to me ne’er did limner paintSo just an image of the Saint,                            335Who propp’d the Virgin in her faint, -  The loved Apostle John!XVII‘He stepp’d before the Monarch’s chair,And stood with rustic plainness there,And little reverence made;                                340Nor head, nor body, bow’d nor bent,But on the desk his arm he leant,  And words like these he said,In a low voice, – but never toneSo thrill’d through vein, and nerve, and bone: -“My mother sent me from afar,                              346Sir King, to warn thee not to war, -  Woe waits on thine array;If war thou wilt, of woman fair,Her witching wiles and wanton snare,                      350James Stuart, doubly warn’d, beware:  God keep thee as He may!”-    The wondering monarch seem’d to seek      For answer, and found none;    And when he raised his head to speak,                  355      The monitor was gone.The Marshal and myself had castTo stop him as he outward pass’d;But, lighter than the whirlwind’s blast,  He vanish’d from our eyes,                              360Like sunbeam on the billow cast,  That glances but, and dies.’XVIII  While Lindesay told his marvel strange,    The twilight was so pale,  He mark’d not Marmion’s colour change,                  365    While listening to the tale:  But, after a suspended pause,  The Baron spoke: – ‘Of Nature’s laws    So strong I held the force,  That never superhuman cause                              370    Could e’er control their course;And, three days since, had judged your aimWas but to make your guest your game.But I have seen, since past the Tweed,What much has changed my sceptic creed,                    375And made me credit aught.’-He staid,And seem’d to wish his words unsaid:But, by that strong emotion press’d,Which prompts us to unload our breast,  Even when discovery’s pain,                              380To Lindesay did at length unfoldThe tale his village host had told,  At Gifford, to his train.Nought of the Palmer says he there,And nought of Constance, or of Clare;                      385The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seemsTo mention but as feverish dreams.XIX‘In vain,’ said he, ‘to rest I spreadMy burning limbs, and couch’d my head:  Fantastic thoughts return’d;                            390And, by their wild dominion led,  My heart within me burn’d.So sore was the delirious goad,I took my steed, and forth I rode,And, as the moon shone bright and cold,                    395Soon reach’d the camp upon the wold.The southern entrance I pass’d through,And halted, and my bugle blew.Methought an answer met my ear, -Yet was the blast so low and drear,                        400So hollow, and so faintly blown,It might be echo of my own.XX‘Thus judging, for a little spaceI listen’d, ere I left the place;  But scarce could trust my eyes,                          405Nor yet can think they serve me true,When sudden in the ring I view,In form distinct of shape and hue,  A mounted champion rise. -I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,                        410In single fight, and mix’d affray,And ever, I myself may say,  Have borne me as a knight;But when this unexpected foeSeem’d starting from the gulf below, –                     415I care not though the truth I show, -  I trembled with affright;And as I placed in rest my spear,My hand so shook for very fear,I scarce could couch it right.                            420XXI‘Why need my tongue the issue tell?We ran our course, – my charger fell; -What could he ‘gainst the shock of hell?  I roll’d upon the plain.High o’er my head, with threatening hand,                  425The spectre shook his naked brand, -  Yet did the worst remain:My dazzled eyes I upward cast, -Not opening hell itself could blast  Their sight, like what I saw!                            430Full on his face the moonbeam strook! -A face could never be mistook!I knew the stern vindictive look,  And held my breath for awe.I saw the face of one who, fled                            435To foreign climes, has long been dead, -  I well believe the last;For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stareA human warrior, with a glare  So grimly and so ghast.                                  440Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade;But when to good Saint George I pray’d,(The first time e’er I ask’d his aid),  He plunged it in the sheath;And, on his courser mounting light,                        445He seem’d to vanish from my sight:The moonbeam droop’d, and deepest night  Sunk down upon the heath. -    ‘Twere long to tell what cause I have      To know his face, that met me there,                450    Call’d by his hatred from the grave,      To cumber upper air:Dead, or alive, good cause had heTo be my mortal enemy.’XXIIMarvell’d Sir David of the Mount;                          455Then, learn’d in story, ‘gan recount  Such chance had happ’d of old,When once, near Norham, there did fightA spectre fell of fiendish might,In likeness of a Scottish knight,                          460  With Brian Bulmer bold,And train’d him nigh to disallowThe aid of his baptismal vow.‘And such a phantom, too, ‘tis said,With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid                465  And fingers red with gore,Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,Or where the sable pine-tree shadeDark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,  Dromouchty, or Glenmore.                                470And yet, whate’er such legends say,Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay,  On mountain, moor, or plain,Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,True son of chivalry should hold                          475  These midnight terrors vain;For seldom have such spirits powerTo harm, save in the evil hour,When guilt we meditate within,Or harbour unrepented sin.’–                              480Lord Marmion turn’d him half aside,And twice to clear his voice he tried,  Then press’d Sir David’s hand, -But nought, at length, in answer said;And here their farther converse staid,                    485  Each ordering that his bandShould bowne them with the rising day,To Scotland’s camp to take their way,  Such was the King’s command.XXIIIEarly they took Dun-Edin’s road,                          490And I could trace each step they trode:Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,Lies on the path to me unknown.Much might if boast of storied lore;But, passing such digression o’er,                        495Suffice it that their route was laidAcross the furzy hills of Braid.They pass’d the glen and scanty rill,And climb’d the opposing bank, untilThey gain’d the top of Blackford Hill.                    500XXIVBlackford! on whose uncultured breast,  Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,A truant-boy, I sought the nest,Or listed, as I lay at rest,  While rose, on breezes thin,                            505The murmur of the city crowd,And, from his steeple jangling loud,  Saint Giles’s mingling din.Now, from the summit to the plain,Waves all the hill with yellow grain;                      510  And o’er the landscape as I look,Nought do I see unchanged remain,  Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.To me they make a heavy moan,Of early friendships past and gone.                        515XXVBut different far the change has been,  Since Marmion, from the crownOf Blackford, saw that martial scene  Upon the bent so brown:Thousand pavilions, white as snow,                        520Spread all the Borough-moor below,  Upland, and dale, and down: -A thousand did I say? I ween,Thousands on thousands there were seenThat chequer’d all the heath between                      525  The streamlet and the town;In crossing ranks extending far,Forming a camp irregular;Oft giving way, where still there stoodSome relics of the old oak wood,                          530That darkly huge did intervene,And tamed the glaring white with green:In these extended lines there layA martial kingdom’s vast array.XXVIFor from Hebudes, dark with rain,                          535To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,And from the southern Redswire edge,To farthest Rosse’s rocky ledge:From west to east, from south to north,Scotland sent all her warriors forth.                      540Marmion might hear the mingled humOf myriads up the mountain come;The horses’ tramp, and tingling clank,Where chiefs review’d their vassal rank,  And charger’s shrilling neigh;                          545And see the shifting lines advance,While frequent flash’d, from shield and lance,  The sun’s reflected ray.XXVIIThin curling in the morning air,The wreaths of failing smoke declare                      550To embers now the brands decay’d,Where the night-watch their fires had made.They saw, slow rolling on the plain,Full many a baggage-cart and wain,And dire artillery’s clumsy car,                          555By sluggish oxen tugg’d to war;And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven,And culverins which France had given.Ill-omen’d gift! the guns remainThe conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain.                    560XXVIIINor mark’d they less, where in the airA thousand streamers flaunted fair;  Various in shape, device, and hue,  Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,Broad, narrow, swallow-tail’d, and square,                565Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there  O’er the pavilions flew.Highest, and midmost, was descriedThe royal banner floating wide;  The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,            570Pitch’d deeply in a massive stone,Which still in memory is shown,  Yet bent beneath the standard’s weight    Whene’er the western wind unroll’d,    With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,                575And gave to view the dazzling field,Where, in proud Scotland’s royal shield,    The ruddy lion ramp’d in gold.XXIXLord Marmion view’d the landscape bright, -He view’d it with a chiefs delight, –                       580  Until within him burn’d his heart,  And lightning from his eye did part,    As on the battle-day;  Such glance did falcon never dart,    When stooping on his prey.                            585‘Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,Thy King from warfare to dissuade  Were but a vain essay:For, by St. George, were that host mine,Not power infernal, nor divine,                            590Should once to peace my soul incline,Till I had dimm’d their armour’s shine  In glorious battle-fray!’Answer’d the Bard, of milder mood:‘Fair is the sight, – and yet ‘twere good,                  595  That Kings would think withal,When peace and wealth their land has bless’d,‘Tis better to sit still at rest,  Than rise, perchance to fall.’XXXStill on the spot Lord Marmion stay’d,                    600For fairer scene he ne’er survey’d.  When sated with the martial show  That peopled all the plain below,  The wandering eye could o’er it go,  And mark the distant city glow                          605    With gloomy splendour red;  For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,  That round her sable turrets flow,    The morning beams were shed,  And tinged them with a lustre proud,                    610  Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,Where the huge Castle holds its state,  And all the steep slope down,Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,                        615Piled deep and massy, close and high,  Mine own romantic town!But northward far, with purer blaze,On Ochil mountains fell the rays,And as each heathy top they kiss’d,                        620It gleam’d a purple amethyst.Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;  And, broad between them roll’d,The gallant Frith the eye might note,                      625Whose islands on its bosom float,  Like emeralds chased in gold.Fitz-Eustace’ heart felt closely pent;As if to give his rapture vent,The spur he to his charger lent,                          630  And raised his bridle hand,And, making demi-volte in air,Cried, ‘Where’s the coward that would not dare  To fight for such a land!’The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;                        635Nor Marmion’s frown repress’d his glee.XXXIThus while they look’d, a flourish proud,Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,  And fife, and kettle-drum,And sackbut deep, and psaltery,                            640And war-pipe with discordant cry,And cymbal clattering to the sky,Making wild music bold and high,  Did up the mountain come;The whilst the bells, with distant chime,                  645Merrily toll’d the hour of prime,  And thus the Lindesay spoke:‘Thus clamour still the war-notes whenThe King to mass his way has ta’en,Or to Saint Katharine’s of Sienne,                        650  Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.To you they speak of martial fame;But me remind of peaceful game,  When blither was their cheer,Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,                      655In signal none his steed should spare,But strive which foremost might repair  To the downfall of the deer.XXXII‘Nor less,’ he said, – ‘when looking forth,I view yon Empress of the North                            660  Sit on her hilly throne;Her palace’s imperial bowers,Her castle, proof to hostile powers,Her stately halls and holy towers-  Nor less,’ he said, ‘I moan,                            665To think what woe mischance may bring,And how these merry bells may ringThe death-dirge of our gallant King;  Or with the larum callThe burghers forth to watch and ward,                      670‘Gainst southern sack and fires to guard  Dun-Edin’s leaguer’d wall. -But not for my presaging thought,Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!  Lord Marmion, I say nay:                                675God is the guider of the field,He breaks the champion’s spear and shield, -  But thou thyself shalt say,When joins yon host in deadly stowre,That England’s dames must weep in bower,                  680  Her monks the death-mass sing;For never saw’st thou such a power  Led on by such a King.’-And now, down winding to the plain,The barriers of the camp they gain,                        685  And there they made a stay. -There stays the Minstrel, till he flingHis hand o’er every Border string,And fit his harp the pomp to sing,Of Scotland’s ancient Court and King,                      695  In the succeeding lay.